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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676816">A Soldier’s Homecoming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm/pseuds/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm'>The_Fangirl_Sunstorm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(John is on a mission and Sherlock misses his blogger), (even though he won’t admit it), BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Drabble, Gen, Mycroft makes a brief cameo, Reverse Reichenbach Parallels, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Worried Sherlock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 00:35:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm/pseuds/The_Fangirl_Sunstorm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been nearly six months since John Watson had accepted an undercover mission and Sherlock’s patience was wearing hopelessly thin. </p><p>Pacing restlessly in long strides in the living room of Baker Street, Sherlock cursed his older brother and his idioic plans. Next time Mycroft’s came to the flat with a scheming glint in his eyes, Sherlock would shut the door in his face.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Soldier’s Homecoming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been nearly six months since John Watson had accepted an undercover mission and Sherlock’s patience was wearing hopelessly thin. </p><p> </p><p>Pacing restlessly in long strides in the living room of Baker Street, Sherlock cursed his older brother and his idioic plans. Next time Mycroft’s came to the flat with a scheming glint in his eyes, Sherlock would shut the door in his face. </p><p> </p><p>As he thought of the offer that had led them to this predicament, the detective’s eyes couldn’t help but cut to John’s usual chair, which had been left virtually untouched since the time John had left. The detective berated himself mentally for the uselessness of the habit, and yet he still could not tear his eyes away from the abandoned seat. </p><p> </p><p><em>It was utterly pointless,</em> he knew, John was not going to just materialize there because Sherlock wished it so. Briefly, he considered having the chair moved so that it could not distract him further, but the detective discarded the idea as soon as it came. It was useless anyway, reminders of his flatmate were strewn throughout the house like Easter eggs, and to hunt them down would take considerably longer and require more effort than Sherlock was willing to expend. Not to mention the reaction John would have if he returned home to find all of his personal belongings stuffed in boxes or hidden away. </p><p> </p><p>And John <em> would be </em> returning home soon, Mycroft had informed the detective. Hence, Sherlock’s cause to be pacing the living room of Baker Street with a ferocity that mirrored a father waiting up for his teenage child to return home before curfew. <em> Utterly ridiculous</em>, Sherlock thought to himself, and yet he continued the action in spite of himself. </p><p> </p><p>The detective was frustrated with his lack of information and impatient for his flatmate to return. </p><p> </p><p>John’s absence had been a battle of attrition for the consulting detective, a waiting game to see just how long he could go without John’s presence before he finally snapped. (Lestrade would argue that Sherlock had already reached that point weeks ago, after a particularly bad fit of temper on the detectives part at a homicide crime scene but what Lestrade thought was utterly irrelevant. What the Scotland yard officer had interpreted as a ‘bloody temper tantrum’ had actually been a perfectly reasonable response. Without John there to soften his words, the detective had been forced to deal with the witness to the crime alone, and the woman had been frustrating beyond belief.)</p><p> </p><p>Once Sherlock would have scoffed at the thought of being so reliant on another person, of being <em> attached </em> to someone, and yet now there was no denying his bond to the doctor. For the first time in Sherlock’s memory, he had someone whom he could honestly call a friend. </p><p> </p><p>John’s absence had affected the detective in more ways than one. Sherlock had grown used to the regularity that John contributed to the flat, like buying groceries and tidying up. Mrs. Hudson had bemoaned on more than one occasion the unruly state of the flat since John left, and had at one point threatened to evict him after an experiment got too out of hand, acid eating its way clean through the door of a kitchen cabinet, which Sherlock had removed from its hinges in order to use as a testing surface for a new chemical compound. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock had grown accustomed to John’s companionship as well, particularly on cases. Though John was not a genius, his ability to ‘conduct light’ as the detective had once phrased it had become something Sherlock expected, even relied on. More than once he had turned to his side on a crime scene, rapid fire assessments meant for John on his lips, only to find empty air and remember the former soldier was away.</p><p> </p><p>Or perhaps, just <em> soldier </em>was the proper term, given that John was currently undercover as an army man. Mycroft had needed intel on a smuggling/trafficking ring, and had been given reason to suspect members of the operation were among the military stationed there. He had wanted John for his past military experience, and his connection to Sherlock had made him more accessible than the other possible candidates. John had asked for an hour to consider, but Sherlock had deduced his answer as soon as Mycroft had posed the question.</p><p> </p><p>John would be going.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of course he would. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And go he had, standing tall and serious but with a hint of a smile. John liked being a part of the action after all, and he was proud to be able to do what Mycroft asked. </p><p> </p><p>John had entered Sherlock’s life with a cane and a lack of purpose, and he left that day on his own feet and with a mission. The transformation was striking, and the detective couldn’t help but feel a hint of pride, even as the displeasure over his friend’s absence began to take its toll.</p><p> </p><p>—————————————————————</p><p> </p><p>Sherlock had delayed asking his brother about John for the first two months of John’s mission, unwilling to seem overly attached or vulnerable. His pride had finally given out somewhere around month three, and he had called Mycroft under the pretense of asking about something else, deducing quickly from Mycroft’s voice the desired information before hanging up abruptly. </p><p> </p><p>Mycroft’s speech had been steady and somewhat bored, with the usual touch of annoyance at the edge. If there had been something amiss with John, Mycroft may have hesitated for just a fraction of a moment in his replies, or his tone would have an extra quality of smoothness to mask emotion. As it were, there had been no irregularities, and this satisfied Sherlock for the time being. </p><p> </p><p>He had not called Mycroft again, but the twinge of worry (however weak-willed and irrational) still surfaced every now and again. The genius tried to beat it back into its proper place in the mind place, locked away as far down as he could manage, but it slipped traitorously through his defenses nonetheless. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock had made it a point to scour the details of John’s mission before the other man had left, and he had calculated every probability down to the last degree. He knew exactly the stakes and risks John was up against, so something as irrational as worry was pointless. Worry was the domain of those who had reason to fear the outcome, or who did not know the outcome and thus were afraid of the unknown. Sherlock <em> knew </em> that the probability for success was high, and that John could hold his own should a less favorable outcome occur, making the detective’s restlessness even more of an annoyance.</p><p> </p><p>And yet here he was, <em> undeniably agitated </em> as he waited for his friend to return home. With a small huff of irritation, the detective strode towards the fireplace and reached for his violin, where it had been resting beside the skull on the mantle. The detective had taken to playing more often in the afternoons than before, fighting off the boredom of empty hours with no company. He lifted the instrument out of its case with care, and set it under his chin, lifting the bowstring in the air and hesitating for only a moment before bringing it down and beginning to play. </p><p> </p><p>The tune was a familiar one, a new melody he had been composing by and by for several weeks. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on drawing out every note, translating his restlessness into music. An hour passed easily in this way, then another, until the hours slid by him in a stream of music and it was suddenly afternoon. </p><p> </p><p>The sound bounced off the walls of the empty flat, and Sherlock took a moment to be pleased with how the tune was progressing before the sound of the flat’s front door lock turning reached his ears. Usually, the detective wouldn’t be caught off guard by such a thing, but he hadn’t been able to hear his guest’s footsteps over the sound of his music. He had only a moment to look up from his instrument before the door opened, revealing Mycroft standing in the hallway. </p><p> </p><p>Any interest Sherlock may have had evaporated, and he prepared a dismissive statement on his tongue before fully taking in his brother’s appearance. Mycroft had a self-satisfied look on his face and the set of his posture revealed all that the consulting detective needed to know before he hastily pushed past the government official and saw the outline of a shorter man at the bottom of the stairs, looking travel-weary and scuffed but glad to be home. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> John was back.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A swell of relief and pleasure bloomed in the detective’s chest, taking him by surprise with its strength. Sherlock did his best to seem unaffected, but judging by the soldier’s answering smile, he was doing a very poor job of masking his emotions. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> John was home. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> John was </em> <b> <em>safe.</em></b></p><p> </p><p>Meanwhile, Mycroft sulked in the doorway.</p><p> </p><p>“I beg your pardon brother mine, is that any way to treat a guest?” The British official said, brushing off his suit front where Sherlock had all but shoved him. The detective ignored him in favor of looking John up and down, inspecting for injury with narrowed eyes. </p><p> </p><p>John rolled his eyes good-naturedly at finding himself the focus of Sherlock’s inspection. The doctor climbed the stairs two at a time, as if to prove to the detective his fitness and general well-being, but Sherlock took note of how John’s hand lingered on the banister, and the lag in his stride. </p><p> </p><p>“You’ve re-exacerbated your limp but it’s not serious, and you’ve fractured your wrist in two places but it’s been on the mend for long enough that you no longer need a brace.” Sherlock stated with certainty, an edge of both satisfaction that John remained easy to deduce after their time apart, and relief that John had returned in one piece.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello to you too Sherlock.” John replied with amusement as he reached the detective’s side. “Glad to see the building’s still standing, I’d been half worried you’d have burned it down by the time I got back.” The soldier entered the flat and strode towards the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and putting it on the stove to boil. Sherlock smiled. He had already deduced that John would make tea when he first returned, but it felt good to see the familiar routine play out again. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock turned to the entryway where his brother was still leaning on his umbrella. </p><p> </p><p>“If that’s all Mycroft then you may leave now. God knows we don’t need you lurking about the doorway like a vampire.” The detective said. </p><p> </p><p>The elder Holmes tutted but turned on his heel and strode out the door all the same, closing it behind himself with a click. Evidently he was not in the mood for their usual banter, or perhaps he had not thought that taking Sherlock’s bait would be worth the effort. </p><p> </p><p>Sherlock turned back to his blogger and looked him over again, taking in the sight of his friend, though this time simply observing instead of assessing for injury. John had a soldier’s tan below the wrists, similar to the day the man had met him and Sherlock felt one corner of his lip twitch upward at the memory.</p><p> </p><p>“What are you smiling for?” John asked casually as he poured himself a mug of the tea (peppermint and jasmine, <em> utterly predictable </em>,) and then wordlessly offered the detective a cup of his own. Sherlock accepted the drink, letting it warm his hands through the ceramic. He hadn’t realized that his hands had been cold until the moment, too wrapped up in his thoughts for the better part of the day to give any consciousness to the sensation. He would have to ask Mrs. Hudson about adjusting the thermostat. </p><p> </p><p>“Nothing of importance, just remembering the day we met.” Sherlock said.</p><p> </p><p>John snorted. “The way you said that you would think we’re an old married couple, no wonder people talk. The neighbors must have been worried we’d had a row and I’d moved out for good.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock said, mirroring John’s amusement, “I overheard one of Mrs. Hudson’s bingo night friends saying she hoped we’d get back together soon. I would have corrected her, but Lestrade came by with another case and talking to her would have been boring anyway.”</p><p> </p><p>John chuckled at that, and their conversation continued to drift in carefree loops as Sherlock filled John in on the mundane details of the goings-ons since the doctor had left. Soon the sun had set and the pair were sitting in comfortable silence in their respective chairs. To Sherlock, it felt as if everything was finally in its proper place, and the nagging worry that had plagued him since John had left was finally silenced. <em> Good riddance. </em> The detective though.</p><p> </p><p>“John,” Sherlock said, “I’m glad you’re back.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, me too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are all welcome.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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